Secrets
by CreamoCrop
Summary: Sometimes what we know about a person, does not even scratch the surface. Series of short ficlets/one-shots inspired by the song: Secret by The Pierces
1. Got A Secret, Can You Keep It?

A black leather-bound notebook sits in the middle of a carefully made-up bed. It's scruffy, torn appearance is in perfect contrast with the pristine, crisp, white duvet underneath it. Inside its worn pages is exactly twenty one thousand, three hundred and eighty-nine words. But now, as a pair of blue eyes leaf through its contents, only sixteen words mattered…

_I've been given a new assignment - a new life to lead, another identity to assume. But this one's…how should I describe it…different? weird? However, I was warned to take it very seriously because of the people involved. It's so important, that I had to sit through a meeting with the big guy._

_Nevertheless at the end of the day, it's just another persona that I have to add in my repertoire. Another name that I have to erase, another self that will soon have to be forgotten._

_Sometimes it's hard to keep track of all of them. There had been so many already, that the memories sometimes fuse in a confusing heap. Soon, this one will be added to that mess. Thank goodness for this notebook, although I should probably burn this one soon, too._

_Oh well, one last mission for this notebook. Let's try it out shall we?_

**_"Hi, My name is Dr. Molly Hooper, a pathologist assigned to assist (and protect) Sherlock Holmes." _**


	2. Swear This One You'll Save

_Jamie Campbell, Elizabeth Howard, Patricia Hall, Chelsea Manse…_

Those were just a few of the names she had learned to respond to over the course of her being…_this. _She can't remember how many names had been used, _perhaps_, too many already. There were times when it felt like she was just drawing them out of the wind, especially if introductions had to be made under inconsequential circumstances. After they were used, those names were instantly discarded; those personalities easily shed.

In an instant, a whole life would be gone.

Memories were erased as fast as they were created. Lies were thrown out as readily as they were needed.

__She only kept note of eight of them.

_Alice Carlton, Rebecca Chase, Ingrid Jackson, Wanda Trace…_

As she stare at the brown folder in front of her, she realized that her list will soon grow longer.

"The credentials are inside. Certificates, referrals, passport, all the legal documents that you will ever need."

_In short, another life._

"Keep in mind the importance of this assignment. Don't do anything rash. Don't be obvious. Don't risk exposure."

_Don't be attached._

She held a sigh as she continue to match the icy stare directed to her. Sitting on the other side, is a man that she had never heard nor seen, only…_felt_.

He is the nameless mover that directs _everything. _

Well, if she is sitting here, being briefed by the big guy himself, it only means this is one of _those _cases.

Slowly, she reached for the brown folder. With careful hands, she lifts the first page and looks at the crisp white paper.

Written on the top-left corner, in precise type-set format, is another name.

_Molly Hooper. _


	3. Better Lock It In Your Pocket

The best lies are the simplest.

It's the reason why "I'm fine" is a common phrase nowadays. It's so easy to say, and simple to fake.

But how does one fake a life?

A person's lifetime can't be conjured in one sitting, it has to start from somewhere.

Wanda Trace plays the piano. Elizabeth Howard is an excellent swimmer, Alice Carlton indulges in bear claw.

That somewhere begins within. The stories sprout from the life of the conjurer.

**It's why Molly Hooper likes coffee and makes excellent brew.**

She lives on this elixir. Insomnia had been sitting on her head since she was eighteen. It is easier to be overwhelmed by the rush of caffeine, than to be overrun by images of broken glass, flying bullets and spilling blood. Thank goodness Sherlock Holmes is a demanding, spoiled child that works odd hours. It's easier to act hesitant or angry over being pushed to work until midnight, when really, she have no intention of going home.

For the first three months since she started, Molly Hooper was always going over time and working at late hours. When her handler saw her, she asked if it was too much.

She merely shrugged. She's insomiac, he's insomiac,

It works.

**It's why Molly Hooper likes cats. **

She never had cats, they move too much and keeping a pet would just be a hindrance. The website was a farce used for diversion, but that didn't mean it had to be designed with flowers and feline. The layout was entirely hers.

Toby was entirely hers.

She never had a chance to have a pet. Obviously she can't keep one because she's always away. Patricia Hall is allergic. Rebecca Chase lives in a flat with no pets policy. Ingrid Jackson is too poor for a pet. Chelsea Manse is too rich for a pet.

Only Molly Hooper seems to be the type to have a fur ball.

When her handler saw the carrier cage, she raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. "Isn't that too much?"

She merely shrugged.

Molly's life, _her_ rules.

Besides, she was informed that Sherlock Holmes had an aversion with the feline race. That gave him something to consider when he had finally decided to break and snoop in Molly Hooper's house. It's not as if there was anything to find, but at least Toby's presence ensured that he didn't stick around long.

Molly Hooper maybe designed to be a very open person, but that didn't she won't be a challenge for Sherlock Holmes.

**It's the reason why now, Molly Hooper is placing a bow in her hair.**

Molly Hooper was invited by John Watson to a Christmas party over at Baker Street. She had always liked Christmas because they held her best memories. But she doesn't have any family to spend it with, and for the past few years, she had to spend it with people who knew her in a different way. Yes, this year, she's still under the same circumstance, but John Watson assured her that it will be a small, intimate party.

"_Oh, you know. Just us…_"

Us…

Molly Hooper is part of that _us. _Hearing that word, felt nice.

Besides, it's the perfect opportunity. The big guy wants to know what is happening to Sherlock's current case. She gets to go over there and observe, while Molly Hooper gets to hand the detective, a blue stripped scarf.

She thinks he really needs a new one. He always wears the same scarf and it's becoming runny on the edges. Last week she passed by a window and saw the scarf who's price was upon request.

"It's too much."

She turns around and comes face to face with her handler. This time it's not a question anymore. The female opposite her, really do thinks it's too much.

She briefly wonders if it's the bow or the red box in her hands.

She shrugs. _Her_ life, _her_ rules.

_No…_

Molly's life, _her_ rules.


	4. Taking This One To The Grave

He is a genius.

But _genius_ doesn't equate to _fail-safe._

In fact, it's quite the opposite. It's so much easier to fall when standing at the top. Not to mention, that it _hurts more._

As a pair of eyes schemed through page after page, he tried to comprehend how much it might have hurt.

He _tried. _He was never good with sentiment, but he's excellent at pretending. So he pretended, word for word, in an attempt to understand her.

_In an attempt to understand her fall._

She was, after all, at the top of her game. Or at least, that's how he had read it. She wouldn't be on those missions, especially this one, if she weren't.

She was definitely the best.

_And yet she fell._

_Hard._

The notebook was her sniveling rattler. It was Honesty written on paper.

_'Today, Sherlock Holmes ignored Molly Hooper (again). _

_She asked him how his day was, he gave her an order._

_She asked him if he would like to have coffee with her, he gave her an order._

_The only time he had ever noticed her was when he pointed out her lipstick, and lack of it, which apparently, makes my mouth smaller.'_

He remembered that day, down to every detail of it. But he remembered it differently, for it was the day that John Watson arrived.

He tried to pull out this information, but he couldn't.

_'His comments, always hurts…'_

Obviously, she remembered it in a different light too. His eyes fell on the two words that were written with deeper indentations and shorter curves; telltale signs of hastened scribbling.

_'…Molly Hooper.'_

_Sentiment._

_How long would it take before people understand that it's an obstructive fog for the mind?_

Yet forward he went, reading as words turned into phrases.

_'Cheeky bastard.'_

Phrases to sentences.

_'He thinks a smile and compliment would be enough.'_

Sentences joining into paragraphs.

_'Good thing it was. At least, for Molly Hooper. Otherwise, he would have found himself trying to charm the surly Dr. Leonard. I would certainly be delighted if I witness something like that, but he'll probably just blackmail into agreeing with his whim.'_

He had no doubt Dr. Leonard would have been blackmailed. There were lots of material available, but alas, it didn't have to come to that.

_'He's lucky that Molly Hooper has a crush on him.'_

He shook his head.

He took less time with the pages that contained the names _Jim/James Moriarty. _He didn't need to be reminded of the man. Before he knew it, he was staring at the page that held the memories of _that_Christmas day. A shiver _almost _ran through his spine as he read her recount of the party.

_'Sherlock failed to understand Molly Hooper again. No one ever did.'_

However, what made him stop reading the notebook, was the ending sentence of the paragraph that described the _"bashed-up" _face. It was the last sentence ever written for that case.

_'He's lucky that Molly Hooper is in love with him.'_

He had closed it after that, and didn't bother to inspect the remaining pages. Instead, he stood up, grabbed the leather-bound notebook and placed it on top of the queen-sized bed draped with white duvet.

He didn't fully understood the contents of that notebook.

_Caring is not an advantage._

But then again, it was never meant to be seen by his eyes. It was never meant to be seen, _at all._

He walked the ten steps between the door and the bed, before turning around to give the old object, one last look. Then, he gripped the handle of the double door, and pulled it towards him, until he heard the satisfying click of a locked door.

The notebook would have to be eradicated soon. It would have to be destroyed, because itshould _never _have existed at all.

_She might as well have changed the name Molly Hooper to that of her real name_.

However, the leather bound journal would have to be left in that room for a while.

Because right now, it might be the very thing that his brother, Sherlock, needs.


End file.
